Possession - J.M. Dillard [2]
But no one stared back at him in the intense Vulcan darkness; there was no one, nothing at all before him except his own hands, raised as if to ward off danger. With unutterable relief, he studied them. They were the broad large hands of a middle-age Vulcan male—slightly lined and laced with prominent veins, fingers spread wide.
And these were his quarters at the Vulcan Science Academy, the same quarters he had slept in for the last twenty-five standard years. Skel immediately lowered his hands and reigned in his dream-induced panic, slowing, his heart rate, lowering his blood pressure, coming back to the present. He was no longer a child of ten prone to irrational night terrors, but a scientist of ninety, a master of physics, a respected researcher. Automatically, he assumed his normal meditative position—cross-legged, spine straight—but could not achieve the passive state he needed to quiet his mind.
Finally, his comm beeped softly in the dark room. He sighed.
It was embarrassing enough to suffer a relapse of his emotion-laden nightmares; to rouse others because of his psychic emanations was humiliating.
He composed himself, then fingered a control on the comm console. “Yes, Healer T’Son.”
The screen filled with the placid face of his personal physician, every jet-colored hair of her elegant braid perfectly in place, her clothing as professional and crisp as if it were two hours past sunrise, not three hours before it. “Skel, I sensed your dream. Are you well?”
She had worked with him for years to rid him of these nightmares. They were mentally linked; there was no logic in being evasive.
“I am … managing. It was particularly vivid. It has been years since the images were so strong. But I am all right now. Thank you for calling me.”
“I am your healer,” she reminded him—a gentle chide that it was not logical to thank someone for doing their job. “You have been working long hard hours. Your sleep patterns have been disrupted. You have neglected your nutritional requirements. And you are striving to complete a difficult task before the Federation’s TechnoFair. These factors, no doubt, have triggered the resurgence of your dreams.”
She was gently trying to tell him he was too concerned about his work and the upcoming deadline. She was reminding him that it was unseemly for a Vulcan to feel such emotional pressure. She would have been correct, too—for most Vulcans. But in Skel’s lifetime, the unpredictable return of his childhood fears often presaged danger, either for him or for those near him. It was as if his mother’s mindtouch could reach beyond the grave and still protect him, even though her katra had been lost, loosed upon the wind. Healer T’Son found no logic in this explanation, preferring to focus on more rational explanations when his dreams resumed. Her steady reliance on reason and science helped Skel through the chaos of his nightmares. With T’Son’s help the dreams had become rare. Which made it even more disturbing to Skel that they should recur now.
As if she understood his mixed feelings about his problem, she reminded him, “I understand how your history might affect your regard for your work. And I understand how important it is to you. Because of your special circumstances, we must take extra care to ensure your health.”
Your mental health is what she meant, but she was too polite to say that.
“Of course, you are correct, Healer,” he agreed, feeling calmer. It always astonished him how merely talking to her could reassure him. It was one of the reasons she insisted they link telepathically. She did not feel that she could be as effective hearing about the dreams hours after they had occurred. It had been a good choice of therapy. T’Son had been a great help to him over the years.
“Remember, Skel, you are not the only Vulcan that lived through the madness. There were many affected—the survivors all have difficulties. That is why healers share our